Three months after the weekend spent melting a chunk of ice the size of overhead luggage, I’m back glaring at Beelzebub’s machine (see Parts 1 & 2). I shiver. Something horrible is going to happen. Curse. Pour a glass of wine. Stare at the hell beast again. Put down the glass undrunk. Praying, I open the fridge. 

Attempt to pull out the ice tray. It should come out easily—I turned off the ice-making option sometime last spring. Yell “Fudgsicles”—the ‘Ice Bucket and Auger Assembly’ is frozen solid. Again. 

This can’t be happening. Curse like the Alabama dock worker I was in my 20s. Fluff my non-existent platinum hair. (Does anyone else remember having cleavage under our chins?)

Outside, a bluebird flies into the window. Probably wanting to investigate what sounds like a mortally wounded animal. 

Update the cursing with some millennial epitaphs learned from the twenty-something that returned home. At least I learned something from that year of… delight.

Sing my siren song, “Looking for Pecs in All the Wrong Places,” a la Elmer Fudd. Not one random man with upper body strength approaches.

But I am not deterred. 

Go to the nearest home repair store. Find a man holding an ax. Buy him and ax. Oops, sorry. Buy ax. Lure man back to house…

After a few hours of blow dryer use and whacking ever more forcefully on the Samsung Attempt-To-Reverse-Global-Warming, the man pries it out. 

Inch long pellets of ice, elliptical with pointy ends at both sides, skitter across the floor.

I collapse, sobbing. The man pats my head. 

By now, my wine is warm, no ice, and there’s a concussed Bluebird of Happiness outside my window. 

This is personal.

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